


The Dancer

by musicforswimming



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Background Relationships, Backstory, Gen, Historical, Insanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-01
Updated: 2004-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicforswimming/pseuds/musicforswimming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris. Drusilla meets a Slayer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dancer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Drusilla-centric ficathon; I got a request for Drusilla, alone, in Paris, in the 1920s.

She loved dancers. She loved the spinning and the twirling and the flitting and the whirling and she did wish that they would wear colors more often. Like leaves and flower petals caught on the wind, twirling and flitting and whirling and spinning and sparkling, sparkling, floating and caught.  
  
The dancer, she followed the dancer through Paris's streets, watched her dancing and twirling and spinning, and smelt the lovely smells of Paris. She did love Paris. Spike didn't, Spike hated Paris, and he didn't understand why she wanted dancers suddenly. She had sent him off, her darling boy, he had been naughty, very naughty, and there would be no dancer for him, no twirly sparkly little flower petal fairy.  
  
He would say she was pouting. Perhaps she was. But her boy had been naughty, and he had to be punished.  
  
She did so love Paris. But she did not like the French. Paris would be lovely without all the French. She snarled at a man who called to her, for his cigarette stank and he smelt of cheap wine. Who did they think she was? Next they'd be cutting off her head.  
  
Not her head, not her head, not her head with the pictures, the evil evil pictures. She must keep her head.  
  
 _Too late for that,_  someone whispered,  _far too late,_  he laughed and laughed and laughed, and she whimpered at the sound of Daddy's voice, she spun 'round looking for him and he was gone, of course. Daddy was gone, he'd left them all alone, because Daddy didn't care about them any longer.  
  
Perhaps she should kill them all, she thought as she sat down on a bench. That would get rid of them, and leave Paris all to her and her beautiful boy.  
  
A girl lay on the bench when Drusilla got up, and her baby beside her, and Drusilla looked at them, and remembered suddenly that they had been so tasty. She wanted some more right now, and she pouted, for there were no other girls with babies around.  
  
Something fluttered, then, out of the corner of her eye, and she twirled around herself, laughing and twirling and her boots made a lovely sound on the ground, clack clack clack, like horses running, clackity clackity clackity clack. She neighed like a horse, and laughed at the sound, and twirled again, her skirts fluttering. She must have more color in her clothes, it made her look pretty. She neighed once more, and giggled again.  _Stupid girl,_  she heard someone say, and she pouted at Grandmama. She would teach her one day, teach her respect, and Grandmama would have to listen, because it all came 'round like a rolling rolling wheel, and things didn't stay down when you put them down.  
  
Clackity clack, and then she heard music, and she looked around again, and remembered the dancers. The dancer, there was only one, but there wouldn't always be one, and she thought of a pretty little girl with fire and light after her black black eyes, a pretty little girl making more dancers and she frowned, and stopped twirling, and began to stomp as she walked off.  _I'm a giant, to eat little girls._  She growled at herself, and laughed again, and started to hum as she looked for the dancer.  
  
They danced and danced, and the little dancer was tired, and she smiled at the pretty little girl, who cursed at her in French. Drusilla caught her hand and slapped her face, scowling. "Naughty," she said simply. The girl snapped something back in nasty nasty French, nasty French dancer, and Drusilla slapped her again. Naughty girls got no cookies.  
  
The little dancer twirled away, and leapt and danced some more. It made Drusilla tired, watching her, and she thought perhaps she should make the little dancer tired, and then they would see how she liked it!  
  
"You would look so pretty in colors," she said as they danced. Her hair was like straw, so golden and pale, and her eyes were bright green that glowed like green fairies, and she danced, the little dancer, she twirled and spun and jumped just like she was fighting, or maybe fought like she was dancing, because she spun too fast and that was cheating, and Drusilla pouted. She should get a spanking, this dancer, and then wear pretty colors, blue would look lovely, blue like the sky that Drusilla couldn't look at. Blue blue dresses for her to dance forever in.  
  
 _It would drive her mad,_  said Master, said Great-Grandfather.  _Ah, and think what a vampire she would make, trapped as one of the kind that she hunts!_  He laughed then, and she shook her head and whimpered, for his laughter kept laughing, kept clawing at her as it died out, even if he was gone and trapped for a long long while. They mustn't make the dancer mad, but oh, how she wanted to keep her!  
  
"Won't you come with me?" she asked. "You can wear pretty dresses, we'll dress you in blue and we'll dance all night long, and you'll have your own brother to play with all you like. But you must promise not to be mad, because you're far too pretty to be mad, and mad girls aren't good dancers at all." She spun around to prove her point, and swung her little dancer with her, and the girl shouted something back in French, and Drusilla slapped her again.  
  
"Naughty," she said simply, frowning. "And we must teach you how to speak properly, too, but we shall have time, and there are lots and lots of books."  
  
The little dancer spun again, and then she fluttered as she ran off.  
  
Drusilla pouted as her dancer ran off, still fluttering and whirling in the nighttime wind. She had been so pretty, and she would have looked so lovely in blue. She stamped her foot and pouted some more, and walked off sadly.  
  
Nasty and pretty, and Paris would be so lovely if it weren't full of French.


End file.
